


But you still hear the record

by piggy09



Series: Obscure Word Fics [11]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mostly I'm just excited that Helena & Grace is a tag now, Post-Series, The universe this is in is dubious in strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah visits her less and less, and when she visits she looks at Helena less and less. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it’s all in Helena’s head, Helena’s head that is sick of running the same memories through her fingers over and over and <i>over</i> until they are all worn out. Maybe Helena is too greedy, and Sarah is not giving her enough because Helena as a person is a broken thing who always wants more than anyone can give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But you still hear the record

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr:
> 
> "Helena | Anagapesis: the feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did."

It happens like this: Sarah leaves.

No, no, that’s not the place to begin the story. Take a step back.

A month ago: Sarah leaves.

Two months ago: Sarah leaves.

Three months ago: Sarah leaves.

Years and years and years ago:

There is a baby – although it does not know itself as a baby, yet. In fact it does not know itself at all. Were it to know itself it would know itself as _potential_ , something that could be a baby.

Sarah leaves.

Then there are two babies.

The point is this: there is no good place to begin this story, because Sarah always leaves, again and again and _again_ Sarah leaves. Helena doesn’t blame her, not really; she knows that she is not exactly a person it is easy to stay with. Her smile is a stunted, painful offshoot of Cosima’s; she cannot cook, she cannot keep a neat house like Alison; sometimes she lies awake and hits herself in the dark for being nothing, _nothing_ like Sarah.

But they’re family. Yes? Shouldn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t that mean something to Sarah? It means everything to Helena.

Helena would do everything for Sarah, would do anything for Sarah, if Sarah would just ask her to – and so she snaps up the table scraps Sarah gives her, the _don’t make a mess_ , the _keep out of trouble, yeah_ , all those little admonishments, she fits her mouth around them and convinces herself they are love.

That doesn’t _work_ , though. That isn’t a way to make a living. Helena’s heart growls like an empty stomach now, constantly, a low thrumming in her chest as she watches Sarah and her family.

(Helena isn’t allowed near Kira.)

(She doesn’t blame Sarah.)

(She _doesn’t_ , she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t.)

That doesn’t work. Rather: it works until it doesn’t. Sarah visits her less and less, and when she visits she looks at Helena less and less. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it’s all in Helena’s head, Helena’s head that is sick of running the same memories through her fingers over and over and _over_ until they are all worn out. Maybe Helena is too greedy, and Sarah is not giving her enough because Helena as a person is a broken thing who always wants more than anyone can give.

Maybe she wants to suck Sarah dry. Maybe that’s the only way she’ll ever be satisfied.

No, no. That isn’t enough. It’s not _enough_.

One day Sarah comes to see Helena, Helena who has been stuffed away into an apartment whose floorboards creak no matter how lightly she walks. Sarah comes, layers over the stale smell of her with new air, checks that Helena has enough to eat – she does(n’t) – and barely even looks at her. Then she leaves (leaves).

Helena sits and watches the door and realizes that she feels nothing. It’s like Sarah wasn’t there at all.

 _Sarah_ , she tells herself. _Sarah was here because she cares about you_.

She sits and waits for this to mean something, but it refuses to mean anything. Helena’s heart sits, stubborn as a stone, in her chest. Slowly Helena stands, moves to the kitchen, and grabs a muffin.

She stuffs the whole thing into her mouth and chews, slowly, swallows.

For the first time she can remember, she isn’t hungry.

* * *

It happens like this: Helena leaves.

What she doesn’t leave is a note. What she doesn’t leave is food in the cabinets. The rest of the apartment is untouched – her bed doesn’t even look slept in, like Helena hasn’t used it once, and the clothes in the closet have all the tags on them.

It has been, Sarah thinks with a dull thud, months. Months Helena has been in this apartment. Months Sarah hasn’t even wanted to look at Helena, see that reminder – _later_ , she told herself. _Later_. _Once I get this shit figured out—_

But there was always more shit, and Helena wasn’t going anywhere. She sat like a stone, unmoving, her eyes always on Sarah.

Or at least, Sarah thinks so.

It’s not like she’s been looking _back_ , exactly.

Her phone’s in her hand, heavy, before she can think to take it out, but – who would she call? _Good riddance_ , says Alison, whispering around the curve of Sarah’s brain. _Look_ , sighs Cosima, heavy, _look_ , _maybe_ —

Sarah slides the phone back into her pocket. Who would she call? Kira? _Hey, monkey, you remember Auntie Helena? Well, I’ve been lookin’ after her but now she’s gone. You know where she went?_

She sits on the couch, tries for a brief second to picture Helena there – would she curl up? would she lie down? would she sit like Sarah sits, legs spread? – and gives up, considers.

Maybe it’s better if she just lets Helena go. Maybe that’s the only way they’ll ever be happy.

No, no. That isn’t right. She _can’t_.

Sarah lets her head thud heavily against the top of the couch, and pretends she isn’t crying.

* * *

Grace has a small apartment in a small building in an area of the city where the skies are dark with smog. Glass, broken into shards that gleam with reflected light, break further under Helena’s boots as she rings the buzzer. The name on the plate says _Jessie_.

There’s a buzz of an intercom and Helena leans in, murmurs, “Hello, Jezebel.”

Silence. She’s let in.

Helena finds herself thinking about Sarah as she climbs the stairs, out of habit, finds herself thinking about when she went to Maggie’s apartment, climbing _those_ stairs. The way she prayed to God and – underneath that – thought about the woman she did not know climbing the same stairs.

There is no longer any satisfaction to be found in the memory. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

Grace opens the door when Helena knocks, the sound ringing hollow in the hallway.

“Helena,” she says cautiously.

“I needed a place to go,” Helena says. She glares at Grace. Her glare says: cast me out. Go on.

“Your sister,” Grace tries, but then shakes her head and stops. She opens the door. Helena can’t find it in her to be grateful; she walks in, looks at the emptiness that (mirrors) is the same as her own.

“It is difficult, isn’t it,” she murmurs, trailing her hand along the edge of the couch. It smells like a factory. The whole place does. “Realizing what is you and what is the people that made you.”

“Why are you here,” says Grace, standing fear-still in the doorway, her voice wavering like a plucked string.

Helena shrugs, doesn’t make eye contact. “Nobody needs you,” she says sadly. “Nobody needs me.”

She turns to look at Grace. “Maybe we could need each other, yes?” she says, almost, _almost_ hopeful.

Grace looks at her, looks at the door, looks around her apartment – her eyes move fast, very fast.

“Fine,” she says, ducking her head down. “You can stay. _For now_.”

Then she looks at Helena, and her eyes are cold as she says, “But I had to make my own life. You do too.”

* * *

The problem is that she doesn’t know the first place to start. _If you were a messed-up, friendless psychopath, where would you go?_ she thinks to herself, pacing back and forth across the apartment. The floorboards creak under her feet, accusing as gunshots. Her mouth tastes like ash. Where would you _go?_ Not back to the Proletheans – she couldn’t have – Sarah doesn’t even want to think about that; it turns her stomach to stone, the same way it would if she herself started using again.

And Helena’s never had anyone else, really. That too is a problem in itself – just an infinite amount of abusive twats, Sarah, and Kira. She hasn’t even had Kira, because the thought of Helena hurting Kira, coming near to Kira, sent Sarah’s heart hammering and twisting in her chest. Kira is the one good thing Sarah has ever made. Helena is all of the bad things of Sarah, made into a person. To keep the two of them separate would be the best thing, right? Right?

 _Fuck_ , Sarah thinks, like a punch to the gut. _Fuck_. She’s been making Helena into herself, hasn’t she. She’s been blaming this woman for all of Sarah’s mistakes. With a sigh that’s more like a sob Sarah collapses on the couch, watches the plume of dust that rises up, and calls Art.

It’s not the happiest phone call Sarah’s ever made, but by the time she hangs up she knows there is – might have been – a guy named Jessie (Jesse? Sarah doesn’t know) and a girl, a girl who had a crisis of faith.

Sarah’s sister loves her fucking riddles. Maybe there isn’t a girl. Maybe the girl is Helena. Maybe the girl is Jessie, too. Sarah has no fucking idea.

She looks at her phone again. Sighs. Dials Cal.

* * *

Helena sits on the couch and thinks about Mark. Thinks about the child that both is and isn’t hers, child-not-her-child.

There is no one in this apartment but Helena and Grace. She does not ask. Instead she watches Grace move from the corner of her eye, watches her make food in her kitchen, neat efficient movements. With a small noise of effort Helena hoists herself off the couch, wanders into the kitchen to see what she’s doing.

Grace watches her with the eyes of an animal crouched over its kill, and Helena spreads her hands in a gesture like surrender.

“I just want to look,” she says, soft. Shrugs. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how,” Grace repeats, in a voice that says _haven’t you been listening to anything my father says_ , says _she has no idea_. Helena missed that voice, maybe, missed someone being disappointed in her. It means she has something to live up to. It’s different than _don’t touch that, don’t do that, don’t don’t don’t_. Somehow. Helena can’t explain it. It’s the same sort of difference that made her shove her pistol back in her pocket, not-yet-not-Beth.

“No,” she says, moving her shoulders again. “I was…busy.”

Grace looks at her sideways and continues slicing bread from a thin long loaf of it. There’s something bubbling in a big pot on the stove, with a glass lid. Grace notices her looking at it and sighs, mutters, “It’s called a slow cooker. You just put the food in it and leave it.”

“You put food in it,” Helena murmurs, “and it comes out cooked?” Miracles.

Grace snorts, shakes her head, dusts her hands off on a hand towel hanging on her oven. “It’s almost done,” she says. “You can help set up the table.”

Then she turns and looks at Helena, says, “I don’t suppose you want to say grace.”

* * *

There are a _whole_ lot of Jessies living in this city, a lot of them living alone – there’s one that stands out, though, Cal tells her with excitement, because the apartment’s held under Jessie, sure, but the girl living there is named Gracie Johanssen.

“You okay?” he asks after Sarah’s been silent for one beat, two, and she murmurs assurances before hanging up.

Helena went back. Sarah was a shitty enough sister to make Helena go back.

She rests her head in her hands, sighs again – her chest is so heavy that her breath keeps escaping – and goes to put on her boots and go out the door. Apologies line up on her tongue like bits of teeth, ready to be spit out. The weight of them is also something like stones to be thrown – but this isn’t Helena’s fault, is it, it’s Sarah’s. It’s all Sarah’s fault.

These thoughts carry her across the city to a broken-down area of the city, where people glare at Sarah from the corners of her vision, like scavengers. She glares back; she’s used to it, used to all of it, knows how to walk to say _lion_ , say _alpha predator_. People clear out of her way and she walks, unmolested, to the apartment building.

The name on the plate says _Jessie_. Sarah rings the buzzer; the intercom buzzes and Sarah leans in, says, “Grace? This is Sarah Manning. I – I’m looking for my sister.”

She closes her eyes, hopes.

There’s just silence.

Sarah waits anyways, because why the hell not. It’s not like she has anything else to do; it’s not like she could go anywhere else, could she, look her family in the eye and not tell them that she’s lost one of her own.

Eventually, she realizes no one is coming, the realization settling in her chest like stone-weight, like the weight of Helena pulling her body down in its zip ties. She turns to go.

There’s a creak of hinges as the door behind her swings open. Sarah turns and meets her own eyes. They look very, very tired.

“Hello, Sarah,” Helena says. Tilts her head. “You look tired.”

And Sarah _is_ tired, so tired, and without any warning from her body she starts crying, stupidly. “Shit, Helena,” she gasps, “I was so worried—”

“Were you?” Helena asks. She hasn’t moved from the door frame; her fingers worry at the metal, spreading and curling back into almost-fists. She is still looking at Sarah. There is something expectant in her eyes, but mostly she just looks about as tired as Sarah feels. She isn’t crying.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sarah says, maybe says, maybe whimpers – she takes an aborted step towards the door and Helena’s fingers clench, warningly, around the frame. Sarah doesn’t move any farther forward. “I’m so sorry, Helena, I didn’t know – I thought…”

She trails off, frustrated. She doesn’t know how to say it in ways that aren’t selfish, ways that don’t say _I thought I was the center of your small and lonely world_ , true as that thought may be.

Helena’s shaking her head back and forth, slowly, her hair rustling and sliding over her shoulders as she repeats the worn-out gesture.

“You don’t need me,” she says simply. She pauses. Looks down, frowns. Her mouth is parted; her hand, on the frame of the door, is still.

She looks back up and lets the words fall from her mouth.

“I don’t need you.”

“Don’t,” she says warningly, before Sarah can say anything else. Sarah can see the familiar anger curling under Helena’s familiar skin – the both of them being familiar because they are, of course, her own.

“Don’t,” she says again, more softly. Her voice is gentle as she says, “You’ve already got a family. Take care of them.”

Helena walks forward one step, two, holds the door open with her foot as she leans forward and brushes a dry kiss against Sarah’s forehead.

“Goodbye, _sestra_ ,” she says, the words filled with an emotion Sarah can’t define.

(She’ll try, later: sadness, maybe. Maybe relief. Maybe anger. Sarah’s so, endlessly frustrated with herself for not being able to know.)

Helena turns her back and walks back into the building. The door swings shut behind her.

Sarah, wordless, bows her head down in something like grief. The shards of glass on the ground reflect her face back at her, over and over and over again.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s like the party is over, but you keep up the décor  
> ‘Cause you’re in denial that the night is over  
> The music’s stopped playing but you still hear the record  
> And no one has the heart to tell you “Sorry, but they packed up and left”
> 
> Christmas lights are strung all over your house  
> [...] the pale dark set in your eyes  
> As you look into mine with the coldest expression  
> And tell yourself we still have that connection
> 
> We’ve been staying up all night when we first met  
> Now it’s early and I wanna go to bed  
> It’s not my job to always love you like I did  
> \--"If You Came Back," Emma Shepard
> 
> This is an instance where I recommend listening to the song, since I couldn't fit all the lyrics in the description and they're all very important. You can find the song [here](http://emmashepard.bandcamp.com/track/if-you-came-back).


End file.
